


Harold the Armchair

by Gabriel (dickyzimmermann)



Category: Harold the Armchair - Fandom
Genre: Consensual Sex, Gay Smut, Heartbreak, I'm Sorry, M/M, Manhandling, Other, Rough handling, Touching, its armchair smut, sort of, this was a joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7116523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dickyzimmermann/pseuds/Gabriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This prompt was send to me a while back and i took it to a weird place:<br/>Write a story from the perspective of Harold the Armchair. What does he think about all day? Does he like being sat on? Do his parents approve of him being an armchair?<br/>Smut ensues??</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harold the Armchair

Destined from creation, my purpose in life was to be used, abused, and then left out for the bin men to take. My name is Harold and this is my story.  
The first thing I can remember of my creator are the calluses on his hands - strong, hardworking, sturdy hands that brought me into this world; the way he caressed my curves will stay with me until my final stuffing is destroyed.  
The way you pet my leather upholstery reminds me of his touch; gentle fingers pressing into me, testing how far I can stretch until I break, making my wood shake and tremble. Your weight in my lap is comforting, a promise of purpose and love, just as I thought I once had from my creator…  
Line up on the conveyor belt felt like a contest; who has the smoothest legs, the perfect posture, the most voluptuous padding? He took his time staring at all of us, slowly running his hands over us as we pass, finally picking me out of the lot. Biceps tensing and bulging under the sleeves of his tight shirt, leaving me only more ready for the thorough, intense testing I was about to endure.  
He first settled me down onto the soft floor, circling around me with a calculating look in his eye, planning the route he would take in testing my limits. Without warning his fingers slip into my creases and sooth over the wrinkled cushioning he leaves behind, with a final once-over, my creator slides into my lap, settling his weight harshly onto me, rocking back and forth to find a rhythm. He quickly changes pace and lifts up, handling me roughly onto my back, sliding into me again, onto my side, gripping my legs and widening them as far as they can go. He bounces on top of me now, pinning me down and stretching my arms, my back until they creak. Finally he seems satisfied, and returns me to my place in line.  
My last meeting with his was quick, he hauled me aside into the van with little care or compassion. My head was spinning, ‘I thought we had something special!’ I yell out, but nothing breaks through his stoic demeanour. He’s moved away now, picking a new partner to tease and bend, and thoughtlessly break.  
But that’s how I met you. Torn and alone in the corner of the window I longing gazed into the eyes of passers-by, finally to be received by you, so handsome and strong, a bittersweet recreation of the man I once loved.  
You took me home and settled me down, and carved a space for me in your family. I was safe.


End file.
